The Prince's Inheritance
by Neko-Houkou
Summary: Bro left a lot of things behind when he died. He isn't proud of all of it. He just hopes this kid who looks like him can do better.


Hey, I'm back from falling off the face of the earth. Sort of.

I hope everyone is having a happy holiday season if you celebrate. If you don't, then I just hope you're having a happy season.

I do not own Homestuck. But I now own a 3DS and y'all can blame that for my sudden and extended absence.

* * *

You only briefly feel the sharp sting of the blade as it cuts through your flesh as though it were butter. The pain is intense, certainly, but it only lasts a moment.

As you die, your world does not fade to black. It goes to something else entirely, something infinitely more difficult to describe. That is because it is the exact opposite of something. Sheer nothingness, a complete void: that is where you are headed now. It is a concept you are completely unable to wrap your mind around. If there was ever someone who could comprehend it, you aren't sure if you would admire them for their intellect or pity them, for surely such a concept would cause insanity.

Your world fades to nothing. And then, suddenly, you _are_ again. You can't recall that feeling of nothingness, only know that you were a part of it, that you were _not._ But now you seem to be. And, for lack of a better word, you seem to be a ghost.

There is black all around you. You look down at your body. Two arms, two legs, and a torso surprisingly free of blood. You can sense everything about your body. The weight of your cotton shirt, the pressure from your dark shoes, and the baseball cap sitting snugly atop you head help serve as reminders that you do indeed exist. Your glasses and katana are conspicuously absent. This irritates you, but you know you have more pressing matters at hand.

You seem to be completely alone. Unless the blackness is some sort of opaque matter obscuring your vision you doubt that will change any time soon. You move your legs. They ache in an unfamiliar way, as though all those years of flash-stepping have finally caught up to you in a wave of aging. Still, you continue to move them in a walking motion. You experience the sensation of movement in the air moving over your skin. Yet your feet clearly do not connect with the ground. More or less you are swimming in this blackness that is not quite a void. With no reference point you are unsure of how quickly you can progress or if it is even worth the effort.

You let out a long suffering sigh. It would be better to try than to sit around bored out of your mind, you think.

You continue the motion of walking without your feet touching anything solid. You wonder if moving your arms would help. You dismiss the thought rather quickly. Regardless of the fact that there is no one to witness the spectacle, Strider pride demands that you not do anything so ludicrously embarrassing. Something like that would be more suited to the Egbert family, you think, though not unfondly.

A prickling feeling makes its way across you neck, putting you on high alert. You are no longer alone. You cannot see anything other than the pitch black, and you cannot hear anything except your own faint breathing. Yet you know without question that there is something here with you.

You are well aware that you are dead already. The familiar weight of the katana in your hand would still be a welcome comfort. Old habits die hard, you think. Unlike you. You feel ashamed at how easily you were killed.

Feeling safe in spite of lingering primitive instincts, you turn around to see if your observer is behind you. He is. He is also you, but not. You don't understand how you could know that, but you have grown accustomed to knowing things you shouldn't know. Ever since Dave arrived, you've known.

He looks exactly as you did when you were younger. His shades are conspicuously present, and for a moment you wonder if they actually are yours. Given that there is no katana, you decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. You aren't sure what you would have done anyway. In this state you doubt you could win a strife. Your legs seem to have deteriorated and you are unarmed. Your left hook is fair, but he is younger than you, perhaps only 16. He looked strong and youthful. He also seemed relatively at ease, though that could just be the Strider pokerface.

It rankles you to think he would easily win a fight. Yet you can't also help but feel proud. This time you find it much more challenging to accept that you are feeling something you shouldn't. Your pride is pulling you in two directions.

Seemingly unaware of your struggles, the stranger cocks his eyebrow. Apparently he is waiting for you to make the first move. But you are a veteran at this sort of game. If youth has given him the physical prowess needed to beat you then age has given you the experience to make him mentally squirm. You do not like to use this ability too often, but you want answers to the dozens of unvoiced questions floating around your head.

He caves first, as you anticipated. He motions for you to follow him and turns his back. His gait is steady, as though he is actually walking on solid ground. You try to mimic the motions. It comes as no shock when you fail to copy him.

You stalk his figure quietly. With your legs hurting it is challenging to keep your not-steps quiet. You'd long ago managed to conquer your breathing when you really focused on it. It was almost as though you weren't there.

It takes him longer than you would like to finally look over his shoulder to make sure you are still there. It is in your nature to keep others guessing and in doubt. Yet when he finally does glance back at you to reassure himself, you find you take little pleasure in disquieting him. You don't want him to feel insecure. On the flipside, you know what it means to be overly certain of how things will turn out.

Perhaps that was why you died. In knowing that your time was coming to an end, you didn't fight as hard as you could have. You didn't have enough heart to resist your fate entirely. At least you went down with some fight, though.

Eventually he stops in his tracks. You stop immediately as well. Again, walking into the person you were following was also a faux pas too ludicrous for a Strider. He turns around to face you, and then motions for you to turn around as well. Part of you rebels against this suggestion. It's not as though you expect him to stab you in the back. You simply aren't sure he'll still be there if you turn back around again. And though you've gotten quite used to solitude ever since you gave up everything to raise Dave, you don't really want to be alone in this place now that you've found someone.

But you do trust him, and so you turn around. Your adoptive brother is cradling your corpse's head in his hands. In the background, you see other corpses. Some look human, others don't. Red blood mixed with a whole spectrum of colors as the bodies bled out.

"This is what your brother inherited," the younger you-not-you finally spoke. He had moved to your side while you were preoccupied. His gaze was fixed on the same scene as yours. Your inattention does not sit well with you. But you let him continue his commentary.

"He and his friends couldn't do it. That's why you're here."

He looks at you, and you look back at him. No more words come from his mouth, so you can't help but wonder if he wants you to say something. You remain as stoic as ever.

He frowns. It's clear he doesn't appreciate your non response. The frown doesn't suit him, but you don't comment as he turns away again, motioning for you to follow once more. You turn back toward the nothingness, the grizzled scene fading out of your peripherals.

All at once you see an orb of light in the distance. You wonder vaguely if this is the afterlife that the two of you are moving toward. But that seems out of place. Shouldn't you already be in the afterlife already?

It doesn't take long for the two of you to walk-drift to the light. It's another scene of light and color. But not life. You see color, but the tableau is too pristine. There is no sound, no signs of habitation. Buildings with no purpose, strongly resembling your own home, are scattered across an empty earth.

"And this," your companion continues, "This is the new kingdom."

You turn toward him and cock your eyebrow in a silent question. He doesn't even look in your direction, but he does end up obliging you unspoken request. "Dave and his friends couldn't protect their world, or even guarantee the birth of a new, fertile one. So they destroyed everything that you had worked toward, and decided to start from scratch."

The comment disheartens you. You are not going to any sort of afterlife after all. It dawns on you that this will be the last time you will ever _be._ It's not so much that you're afraid. You just wish you could still be there for Dave somehow.

"Only, they weren't there in time," the alternate you continues. Whether he is aware of your distress or not is indiscernible even by you. A witch who lost her own home came here to build a new empire. But even she's being used as a pawn. There's a monster out there who wants to destroy everything."

You get the feeling he's not referring to the dog that killed you. Your lips tighten as you wonder if everything that still exists will be okay.

"So now it's my turn." He states. Giving in to impulse, you give him an even more incredulous look. "You had your turn. Your brother is still fighting the bloody battle, though he's starting to wear down. So now it's my turn to pick up the pieces and put this universe back together again." He looks up at you. His eyes are hidden behind what you are now absolutely certain are your sunglasses, so you can't quite tell what he's thinking. It seems as though he wants something from you. Yet he refuses to say it.

You decide that taking a guess is better than having a stare-down. You offer him your hand. He shakes it.

His stance is one of immovability and his grip is firm. He wanted your approval, but he was going to take your throne whether or not you were willing to give it to him. You know he will do whatever it takes to make sure history is not repeated with this iteration. You are glad for it. You just hope that he and Dave will get along, because Dirk will be all that he has left of you.


End file.
